Into the West

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~The Silver Mile, Sanc~


From her vantage point above the crowd, the girl watched in silence as the royal procession moved slowly up the street towards her. She might have sat back and enjoyed the sight if she had not come to Sanc for a reason.

It had been a long and hard road, a road that she had feared would never end. But she was here now and it was finally time. The circle of hatred and fear that Ozoni had created would end, and it would be by the hand of one who had lived through it all.

Already she could make out the king. Ozoni’s ruthlessness and cruelty had won him a reputation as a tyrant in the circles she had moved.
His hair, once golden in colour was now the white and grey of old age. His warrior’s build had disappeared into skeletal thinness.
The heavy ceremonial robes he wore engulfed him so he looked even frailer.

No more did he look like the great warrior he had been in his youth, or the vicious murderer he had become later. Instead, she saw a frail old man on deaths door. He was not what she remembered or what she had expected.

Pulling the cloak further around herself, the girl felt along her waist for one of the delicate throwing knives hidden in her belt. As thin as a butterfly’s wing and just the length of her thumb, these tiny blades had escaped notice many times before. They had saved her more then once and today she would use one in her revenge.

Ozoni was to die and she would not be satisfied unless it was by her hand.

He owed her a life in repayment for one he had taken.
There was not a soul upon this earth who deserved to die like Narsail had. Not even Ozoni with all of his crimes.

Taking a deep breath she pushed aside the memory. It would do her no good to be distracted by such emotions as she felt when she thought of that horrific day. The aftermath of the battle of Pandis’Veel would haunt her until the end of time.

Pulling a tight veil over the lower half of her face, the girl pulled a blade from her belt and began to run it between her fingers until she had it poised for throwing.
This one she had made personally. It was of a design unseen since the war and engraved along the flat of the blade were two graceful Andine symbols that spelled out the words, ‘For Narsail’.

The procession was halfway up the street.

Crouching low on the wall the girl allowed herself to take in the rest of the group.

Beside the old king rode his favourite mistress and current queen, the Lady Kalisin. There was no true queen, instead the king had a host of concubines.

Behind the king rode four of the five princes. The five brothers of different mothers as they were sometimes called.

Pyriel, the eldest was tall, slim and dark haired but in all other aspects, he was considered a younger and more vicious version of his father.

Lir, the second son was thought of as the visionary of the brothers, but he was also the kingdoms chief spymaster.

The third son, Othello, sat tall in the red and gold armour of a General.

Kira, the forth prince was missing from the group, he was the dark cat-like one, whom rumours said, was his father’s chief assassin.

Finally there was Ariael, pale and slender with all the emotion and warmth of a glacier.

As the group moved closer, all of them dressed in black and silver, with the exception of Othello who wore his ornamental mail, the girl readied herself to pounce.

She had one chance and one chance alone. If she failed she was as good as dead. There would be no second chances.

Ozoni did not suffer would-be assassins to live very long.

Rocking forwards onto the balls of her feet, she began to count to ten. That was all the time the old king had left to live, he would not have a breath more.

“Ten.”

The shone hooves of the horses clattered loudly against the stone cobbles, bright sparks glittered unseen to all but her own black eyes as the metal struck stone.

“Nine.”

The sickly sweet smell of perfume rose as the bitter wind picked up and made her wrinkle her delicate nose.

“Eight.”

The bright blue sky dimmed as dark winter clouds drifted across it and blotted out the sun.

“Seven.”

The rank smell of old age and sickness drifted against the girl and made her stiffen, she knew the smell but there was something more to it, something unnatural.

“Six.”

Poison clung to the smell like a feasting parasite she realised, someone was slowly poisoning him.

“Five.”

Her hand loosened its hold on the knife and the blade nicked her skin as she fumbled to catch it.

“Four.”

The general had noticed her: a shiver ran through her and her blood slid down the blade.

“Three.”

As she flicked the blade back into her hand she felt her hood slipped back almost of its own accord.

“Two.”

She looked back up and straight into bright blue eyes.

“One.”